“Did y’all break up?” he asks folding his arms over his chest as he nods.
“This conversation is not appropriate, Ernest. Get to your next class before you’re late.”
He huffs, mumbling something about legally changing his name the day he turns eighteen, then he walks out of the room.
Grabbing my phone, I look at the time. He won’t be at the field yet. He’ll probably be at the hotel. And E.J. didn’t need to inform me of Carter’s schedule—I can’t help but follow it even when I try to avoid it. But what I really wish I could’ve avoided was watching last night’s game, because I didn’t recognize any part of the man I know.
It bugged me when Bodie made a comment about him needing to look at his cheat sheet a lot. Not only did I know that’s not what he was doing, but I knew he was in a bad way because he looked at that card between every single pitch. He’s definitely struggling with something, but it’s not what pitch to throw, and my guess is it has something to do with Cash since he needed to constantly remind himself of why he was on the mound.
I hesitate but quickly type in the message and send it before I change my mind. Because I want to know.
Me: Are you okay?
Carter: Yes.
“Very convincing,” I mutter.
Me: Then why did you look in your hat between every pitch?
I regret asking as soon as I send the message, but no matter what’s going on （or not going on） between me and Carter, I want to know he’s all right. And when the seconds tick by, turning into minutes, I finally realize he isn’t going to respond. That worries me more than any answer he could’ve given.
30
CARTER
“Again,” Coach commands.
Woodenly, I move up the bullpen mound, set up on the rubber, and throw the ball.
“Again,” Dundee chirps.
Again, I mechanically throw the ball. There’s no fire. No thought. I’m simply following an order. I stand and wait for either his approval or next instruction. He dismisses the catcher, leaving us alone in the bullpen. The sounds of the crowd arriving for the game can be heard, but it’s not my day. Tomorrow is. And I know Dundee’s level of concern is warranted. “There’s no shame in standing down, kid.”
“I’m ready,” I reply flatly, which earns me an assessing look from Dundee.
“Your former team is in our house for a series, and you’ve been walking around here like a mindless zombie, and you want me to believe that you’re ready to go?”
When I don’t respond, he waves his hand, signaling for me to spill whatever he thinks I need to say. “I’m good.”
He blows out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. Okay. Well, we’ll see how ready you are tomorrow.”
I walk into the clubhouse to shower and pull on the Coyote uniform.
“Hey, man. You good over there?” Brooks asks.
“Yeah.” I am. I’m fine. I’ve done this for years. Pretending everything is fine is my thing. Even Avery said it. Only she knows the truth, and the fact that she noticed I was looking in my hat every pitch affirms that she sees through the fa?ade, past all my bullshit, and it still doesn’t make a fucking difference at the end of the day.
“How’s Avery?”
“Wouldn’t know,” I retort, moving to sit in one of the leather chairs in the center of the room. I have no plan to move until it’s time to head to the dugout. Every muscle in my body aches with tension, but it’s not from the workout.
Brooks sits in the chair beside me, remaining quiet for a few as Gunner and some other guys ignore us and chipperly bounce around the room.
“What happened?” Brooks asks as I keep my eyes fixated on the ceiling.
“I guess she didn’t like what she saw.” And that was me.
“Do you really believe that load?” he asks as I look to him.
“I don’t know what to believe.” She pushed me away, then sent a stupid message. And it’s a stupid message because now I know she’s still watching my games. The person who didn’t want shit to do with baseball or me, who ran at every chance, who doesn’t want me around, is still watching me play. Was it all a bunch of bull?
“Me either.”
Brooks remains next to me, a silent sentry, until it’s time to head out to the field. Once we’re in the dugout, I park my ass on the bench and don’t move.
As I watch the Evergreens celebrate their victory in the visitors’ dugout, I lock eyes with Mac, the only damn one to get a hit off of me in the last series. The thing is, he knows my skills better than most—the whole team, really, especially the pitching staff. It’s harder to defeat someone when they can predict what you’re going to do before you even know.